“Thanks for coming,” he repeated for about the tenth time since he’d picked her up.
“I told you, it was fine,” she assured him. She put her gas mask bag, cap and coat on a stool next to her and crossed her legs, right over left. She cradled the half pint glass, hands resting in her lap. “I’m just glad you didn’t come back into the office.”
Carter grunted and cleared his throat. He did a little dance on his seat and he felt his cheeks colour slightly. He coughed to clear his throat.
“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. Not exactly my finest moment.” He took a long pull on his beer to stop himself saying anything else stupid. She asked him how he’d been since the New Year. That was a safe topic, he was okay with that. He kept things light, avoiding talking shop too much if he could help it.
She cleared her throat and looked off to one side, her hand playing with a loose curl of hair that hung down by her ear. The conversation between them was very stilted and he knew it. She sipped her drink and fidgeted and he could feel the opportunity slipping away.
His coming to Group had caught her off guard and she felt very self conscious being the sole focus of his attention.
“So, Georgette? Unconventional?” he blurted out, but she was good enough to smile.
“I know, call me, George, please. Everyone else does.” He dipped his chin, indicating agreement with her wishes. “I think father wanted a boy. He already had a house full of daughters when I came along. I imagine he must have been quite disappointed when I turned up.”
“How many sisters have you got?”
“Five,” she told him. “Three are married and the other two are in the services like me.” He whistled tonelessly. He thought things had been hectic having one older brother and sister when he was growing up. “It gets very noisy at Christmas,” she commented.
“I can imagine. What about you?” he asked her.
“Me?” she shrugged. “Not much to tell really. Married, widowed, joined up.” She drunk quickly, eyes downcast.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.” She looked off to the left and played with her hair again. “It was a while ago now. He was in France.”
Georgette neglected to mention the hammer shock of receiving the telegram. That moment was ingrained on her mind forever, etched on her heart. She had never felt such pain, but when it all kicked off for real in France she had a premonition something would happen.
Charles had been one of those freewheeling daredevil pilots. The war was a jape to him. His letters were never serious and painted a jolly picture of life on the line. She knew in her heart, if he hadn’t fallen in France, he would have bought it later in the summer over the southern skies of England.
She’d joined up not long after that. The flat in London had suddenly seemed very big and cold and lonely once she was on her own. Ever practical, rather than sit sobbing in the parlour and feeling sorry for herself, she had picked herself up and enlisted in the WAAFs. After six months in northern Scotland, she’d wangled a posting to 5 Group and remained at Grantham ever since. She had thrown herself into her work, doing her bit, as her mother would say. The pain went away with time and she began living again.
She found life at Group interesting. A veritable hive of activity, the place never rested. Ops days were busy and the teletypes would clatter like crazy as a blizzard of orders flew out of St Vincents Hall to the squadrons spread around Lincolnshire.
At night, the skies were filled with the drone of bombers and in the days following, she and her staff would collate the intelligence reports as they came in, summarising the interrogation forms and target photographs. On the face of it, it was dull stuff, but she found it fascinating. Each report was a crew, a single plane going to Germany and back. Even a bare report had flickers of life, a description of an explosion, or an attack by a night fighter. She also read accounts of men killed, men wounded on bombers that struggled home in the dark. It turned dry bold facts into something else.
She wasn’t a nun, there had been men since, but nothing serious. She had promised herself after Charles, no more operational Johnnies. Now here she was, having a drink with another pilot. So much for promises. It was only a drink she kept telling herself, justifying the lie.
She looked again at the man sat across from her. He was just like she remembered, the steady clear blue eyes and the pale freckled face. She had been thinking about him off and on since Christmas and that drive in the dark at New Year. He seemed very different from Charles. Carter was more reserved but not in a boring, plodding way.
Once she got back to work, she had easily found out what squadron was based at Amber Hill and since then she had kept an eye out for his interrogation report and target photo. She had looked at them, hearing the phrases of the report in his voice. It made him more real somehow.
A fellow WAAF from Group came into the pub. She looked at Georgette and raised an eyebrow before glancing at Carter, expecting to be introduced. Georgette ignored her and suggested a walk. Carter had no objection and he shrugged his greatcoat on before holding hers up so she could put it on.
“Thank you,” she said, as their fingers touched. Carter made a strangled coughing sound and headed for the door. He held it open and they stepped onto the street. It was cold after the warm of the pub and she set a brisk pace heading wherever her feet decided. Her mind was elsewhere, thinking. Carter filled the silence.
“I’m meeting, Freddie for dinner in a bit. Is The Madison far?”
“Not very. It’s a short drive from here. You just have to make sure you don’t miss the turning. There are high hedges that mask the lane on the right.”
“Good. I’m having diner there with him and, Helen, his wife.”
Georgette cocked her head, her interest peaked. His voice had come alive then, full of genuine enthusiasm, the mask of reserve slipping away. She remembered him saying earlier he’d come to see a friend. She steered them down a lane that led downhill.
“Is that who you came to see?” Carter nodded. “Have you known Squadron Leader, Wilkinson long?”
“We went through our first tour together. Then he was my flight commander. I introduced him to his wife many moons ago.”
She nodded quietly. So few words to cover so much. They must have gone through a lot she mused. He asked her how her she had been since New Year.
“Fine,” she replied. “Busy. You know how it is.” He glanced at her as they walked. He could see her smile, the line of her teeth in the growing gloom. That exchange took them to the end of the lane. They stood close together on the corner.
“This is me,” she gestured to the left. The cobbled street fell away down a gentle slope with residential houses on either side. “Your cars that way,” she told him, pointing to the right. Carter saw the pub they had been to in the distance, they had virtually gone around the block. He was about to go when he screwed up some nerve.
“Come with me to dinner,” he asked.
“But your friend,” she demurred. “I’d be intruding.”
“Not at all,” he assured her.
“You mean it?”
“Well, of course I mean it.” He took that half step that closed the distance between them and took her hands in his. “Helen will be over the moon at having some company. Come with me,” he urged her again.
She looked down for a moment, suddenly hesitant. His thumbs stroked across the top of her fingers. She chewed on her lower lip and then looked up into his eyes. A smile dimpled her left cheek as she decided.
“All right.” She let go of his hands and did a small pirouette, bending her right leg at the knee. “Does a girl get time to change?” The scar on his cheek danced as he laughed. She smiled again, liking the way the years fell of his face. He checked his watch.
“I don’t suppose it matters if we’re a little late. Will fifteen minutes be enough?”
“I’ll manage it in ten,” she assured him. Pulling on his hand, she led the way back to where he ha
d parked the car.
It actually took her twelve minutes but Carter was not so churlish to begrudge a girl a few minutes. He’d waited in the car while she had flown inside the boarding house she shared with some other WAAF officers. He spotted a few female faces peering at him from the front bay window. He gave them a wave while he waited.
She came dashing out, clutching a bag in one hand, coat draped over her arm while her other hand kept her hat on her head. The unflattering uniform had been replaced by an emerald green dress, pre-war judging by the number of pleats. A cream cardigan with green and brown decorative stitching was draped across her shoulders. An enamel brooch of a hummingbird was on her left breast. A red brimmed hat with pheasant feather was pinned at an angle to her dark hair. Her feet were sleeved in a pair of green sling back heels, her toes peaking out at the front. She finished her make up on the way, applying a swipe of lipstick while looking in a small compact.
Carter snatched glimpses of her as he drove and she gave him directions. He muttered in annoyance when the windscreen started to steam up. The heater in Archer’s car was pretty poor so he rummaged around with his free hand for a rag.
They missed the turning for the hotel and the car skidded to a halt on the damp road. Georgette sat quietly, an amused expression on her face as Carter reversed and then went up the drive.
The hotel had been a sprawling country pile until the first war. The army had requisitioned it as some obscure headquarters in 1915 for the duration. By wars end, there was no lord of the manor left to retake possession. Two heirs had fallen in the Fields of France while a distant cousin had been shot by a sniper at Gallipoli. A rich industrialist bought the house but his own social pretensions came to an abrupt halt during the Great Depression. The hall was auctioned off to settle his debts and turned into a hotel. Just outside Grantham, it was neatly placed to take advantage of business from weary travellers on The Great North Road and the train station in town.
Carter parked the car under a huge oak tree out front. He held the door open for Georgette and their shoes crunched on gravel as they covered the short distance to the entrance. The entrance hall had a fire blazing in the grate and was decorated in warming shades. Carter followed his nose to the dining room. Originally two reception rooms, it had been knocked through into one large room that ran the length of the house. The parquet floor shone, tables were laid with white cloths while fox and deer heads looked down from the walls.
Helen Wilkinson waved to him and Carter leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.
“You’ll forgive me not getting up,” she said.
Carter noticed her large belly, she was clearly a few months gone.
“Helen, you look wonderful,” he assured her.
“Alex, you’re such a dear, it’s lovely to see you but you’re a terrible liar. I’m a whale.” She rubbed her rounded tummy with both hands and patted the top of her stomach.
“You’re positively glowing,” he told her again.
Newly married, pregnant and her husband was safe on the ground. Helen Wilkinson was content, the stars had aligned in her world.
She had first met Carter and Freddie at a squadron dance late in 1940. Nineteen, she’d clutched her handbag tightly to herself while looking around the hall, a wallflower that needed saving from the more predatory types on the squadron. Carter had seen her first and drifted over to introduce himself. They were dancing when Wilkinson cut in and that was it. Cupid’s arrow struck home and she monopolised him for the rest of the evening. It was a whirlwind after that. They had married a month later, when Wilkinson and Carter were both only halfway through their tours.
Carter had thought them insane at the time but it was an incredibly happy marriage. Their home had been a haven for him during his tour until Mary came north.
“Where’s, Freddie?” he asked, looking around the dining room.
“Little boys room,” she told him.”You’re late by the way,” she said in good humour.
“Dearest, Helen, forgive me,” he pleaded. “Helen, may I introduce Section Officer, Georgette Waters.”
The two women looked at each other in that critical appraising way that women do so well, a quick up and down, shrewd eyes missing nothing. Freddie had brought Helen up to date where Carter and Mary was concerned so she was interested to see what this new person was like. Carter held the chair for her and Georgette sat down across from Helen.
“So you didn’t get lost then?” Helen asked him, smiling sweetly, her tone teasing.
“I don’t need a navigator for everything. I just had a slight course correction.”
“So I see,” said Wilkinson, coming up to them unnoticed. “Good evening, Miss Waters,” he said, looking down at Georgette as he stood to her left.
“Sir.”
“Oh good grief, Freddie, don’t be such a bore,” his wife admonished him. “You’re not at work now.” Georgette smiled, liking her already.
“I..er, asked Miss Waters if she would like to join us,” said Carter, a little sheepish. Wilkinson scowled for a half second and then grinned.
“I think we can manage that,” he replied in good humour. He caught the eye of the waiter and indicated it would be one extra for dinner. The man reacted quickly and laid an extra place setting in front of Georgette. Drinks were ordered as they perused the menu.
“What shall we have?” Helen asked Georgette. Although rationing was firmly in effect, the hotel was able to provide a varied menu of fare. The hotel grew its own vegetables and rabbit was abundant locally so it feature strongly in various guises. The chef was a French evacuee who had been classically trained in Paris. Their loss was the hotels gain and the waiter assured them there was a wonderful sauce to accompany the roasted rabbit.
After the drab offerings at her digs and at Groups canteen, Georgette’s mouth was watering and she saw the printed words having the same effect on Carter. She settled on Lapin a la Cootie, rabbit stew, and tore into a crusty roll while she waited.
Carter was careful to avoid talking shop while they waited for their food to arrive. They were in a public space after all but there was little harm in talking about his time up north and Helen loved hearing about Scotland. Georgette chipped in with some of her own stories about life in the Highlands. Helen told Carter off for not writing in the intervening months.
“Sorry,” he said, abashed. “Been busy.” His hands played with the stem of his wine glass.
“As long as it doesn’t happen again,” she told him. Wilkinson sipped his glass of red wine slowly, appreciating the flavour. How the other half live, Carter reflected, not that he begrudged his friend his promotion or position, he had earned it.
Carter took in the ambiance of the dining room. It was half full. One or two uniforms were evident but the rest were strictly civilians. His attention snapped back when Helen asked how his family was. He filled in the details in broad strokes. Wilkinson asked Georgette how long she had been at Group, his face all attention, the mark of a good listener.
It turned out Georgette grew up not far from Wilkinson on the Sussex Downs although her family had moved to Kingston when she was seven. Small talk kept them going until dinner arrived.
The rabbit stew was excellent. There were big chunks of tender meat in a puddle of sauce laced with garlic and herbs. Carter forced himself to take his time. Good food should be savoured; especially when he had no idea if he’d be coming here again.
“This place is a gem,” he commented, licking sauce off his fork.
“Rather,” rumbled Wilkinson in agreement. “A Wing Commander told me about it when I said I was looking for somewhere for, Helen to stay.”
He reached over and gave his wifes hand a reassuring squeeze. Helen hadn’t been keen on the idea at first, but once she saw the hotel she’d felt at home. It was nice to have company in the evenings when Freddie was busy. Once the baby was born she would go back to her parents in Lincoln.
Wilkinson recommended the souffle for dessert and Georgette an
d Carter weren’t disappointed. Sated, Carter leaned back in his chair and half listened to the dance music filtering in from the radio in the room next door. The ladies excused themselves and Wilkinson ordered tea and cigars. Carter grimaced slightly at the extravagance. Flight Lieutenants pockets were not exactly flush with gold. Wilkinson must have caught his look because he waved away his worries.
“Special treat old man. Some things are beyond price.”
Carter nodded a thank you. There were a lot of things to say but between himself and Wilkinson there was that unspoken language. A look here, a nod, a lift of the head that said more about all those yesterdays than words ever could.
Wilkinson looked around to make sure there was no one else in earshot. Satisfied they could talk, he hitched his chair round so it was closer to Carter. They leaned in. Wilkinson fished in the breast pocket on his uniform jacket.
“By the way, I’ve got something here for you.” He held up a folded piece of paper between two fingers. “I forgot to mention it earlier.” He handed over the note.
Carter frowned as he took it, wondering what it was. He glanced at Wilkinson before he read it.
“Report on your man and his girl,” Wilkinson told him. He leaned back and sipped his tea, while Carter scanned the tightly typed words. “I was going to ring but you’ve saved me the call.”
The report of concern had crossed his desk the week before. As it involved a member of Carters crew, Wilkinson had taken a personal interest. As a refugee from an occupied nation, Denise had been compelled to register her address when she came to England so it had not been hard to find out some details about her. A few discreet enquiries had been made.
“Nothing to worry about,” Wilkinson emphasised. There had been a few eyebrows raised over her suspected profession in London but nothing that would compromise security here. Carter grunted when he read the conclusion. Past was past. She seemed a lovely girl and if Vos was looking after her, who cared? She wasn’t a spy or something else nefarious so that was his worry taken care of.
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